The Night Voice

by Barb Hendee

  Osha’s mount closed on and rounded the two women as he drew and fitted his second-to-last white-metal-tipped arrow.

  Shade hit Sau’ilahk in the chest with both forepaws, and he went tumbling over backward. After a rebound, she whirled to go at him again.

  “No,” Chuillyon shouted. “Hold, Shade.”

  Osha stalled in shock.

  Sau’ilahk rose, his eyes widening, and as if on instinct, he turned and ran.

  Osha did not care what became of Sau’ilahk as he swung off his mount. He ran straight to Wynn, sitting on the ground and supported by Wayfarer, and he ignored everything else as he dropped to one knee.

  “Are you injured?” he asked.

  Almost instantly, Shade pushed in beside him, dropped one of his arrows from her jaws, and pressed her nose into Wynn’s neck. Wynn appeared to fumble in an attempt to grip the dog’s neck but did not look at anyone. She was staring downward at . . . nothing.

  Chuillyon neared to stand above all of them.

  “Osha, is that you?” Wynn asked, a tremor in her voice.

  “Yes, certainly, I am . . .”

  He could not finish. Wynn still looked at no one, not even Shade, though both her hands were clutching the majay-hì’s thick fur.

  Osha turned cold inside, looking first into Wynn’s wandering eyes. In the dark, he could just make out the wet cheeks of her oval olive-toned face.

  He looked to Wayfarer. Why was she crying as well? Then he felt sick. Still trying to deny what he saw, he waved a hand only a palm’s breadth before Wynn’s face.

  She did not blink or flinch.

  Her glasses lay on the ground not far from the staff, its crystal now dark. Without thinking, Osha grasped Wynn away from Shade and Wayfarer and pulled her into his chest. She felt so small in his arms.

  “Help Magiere,” Wynn said, clutching the front of his jerkin. “When I last . . . saw her, she had become lost to herself again and ran into the horde.”

  Osha’s chest hurt as if something had broken inside him.

  “No more time for grief,” Chuillyon said. “Get her up! Wynn, you must light the staff again and keep it lit.”

  Osha was about to lash out at Chuillyon when Wayfarer grabbed his arm with both hands. He glared between them both. How could they be so cold, so heartless? But some of Wynn’s warning slipped through.

  Magiere was now a danger to them all, one way or another. He remembered why Chane had sent him and ran his hand all over Wynn, searching her clothing.

  “Where is it?” he demanded. “Where is the bottle Chane gave you? You must drink it quickly to heal your eyes.”

  Wynn went still in his arms. “No.”

  Osha froze. “You must drink it!”

  “No.”

  Chuillyon spun away and in three steps picked up the staff—and the glasses. What good would the latter do anymore?

  “Get her up, now!” he commanded, closing on them again.

  “I—I can’t,” Wynn gasped out, dropping her head against Osha’s chest. “I’m too weak.”

  “The potion will heal you,” Osha insisted. “Perhaps give you strength again.”

  “No!” Wynn cried, pushing away from him. “This isn’t a wound of flesh, blood, or bone. It may not be a wound that can be healed, and I won’t waste the potion on myself.”

  “It is the only way,” he insisted.

  “Use it to stop Magiere,” she pressed.

  To stop Magiere? What was she saying?

  Everyone fell silent in confusion, and before Osha could ask, Wynn began digging into her short-robe.

  “Please, Osha,” she begged. “We did this to her, or Chap and I did. Magiere must be stopped, any way that we can.”

  Still he hesitated, though he then remembered Chane’s words.

  The liquid is also a poison to the undead.

  Wynn finally withdrew a small bottle from her short-robe. Did she know what else that fluid might do?

  “Please!” Wynn insisted, blindly holding out the bottle. “Dip your arrows in this. Stop her any way you have to.”

  “I can help Wynn here,” Wayfarer whispered, and looked up to Chuillyon. “Perhaps . . . to keep the staff lit.”

  Osha’s bow lay on the ground beside him. He glanced at it and back to Wynn.

  How could she of anyone ask him to kill again? Even if he took great care, if that fluid killed whatever undead nature lay within Magiere, would it not kill her as well? Was that nature not part of the way she had been born—what she was?

  And what if the potion did not stop Magiere?

  “You have to do this,” Wynn said. “No one else—perhaps not even Chap—might survive getting too close to her. You have to use your bow.”

  Looking around at all of them, Osha stalled in meeting Wayfarer’s intense eyes. There was no one else who could do this—and he took the bottle from Wynn. Hefting his bow, he silently turned away.

  “If you fail,” he said, walking away, “take the horse and flee.”

  Only Shade tried to follow him.

  “No,” he said without looking back.

  Their task now was to reignite the staff, and his might be to kill a friend.

  Osha ran toward the battle.

  • • •

  Wayfarer watched the one man she both loved and blamed run off in the dark. Osha had not come for her but for Wynn. How many times would she be only an afterthought to him?

  There was no more time for selfish thoughts as she looked to the young woman still sitting beside her.

  “Is he gone?” Wynn asked.

  “Enough!” Chuillyon interrupted, and leaned out the staff, its crystal nearly over Wynn’s head. “Both of you, up.”

  Wayfarer took hold of Wynn’s arm, helped her rise, and guided her hands to take the staff.

  “Take these,” Chuillyon added.

  Wayfarer stared at the glasses, their lenses darker than the night. The tall Lhoin’na had thrust them at her and not Wynn.

  “You will need them,” he added, “if you can help her.”

  With one glance at Wynn, Chuillyon turned away, walking slowly toward the distant battle.

  “I will do what I can to stop anything coming for you,” he added, and then paused to glance back at Shade. “Perhaps you should come as well?”

  Shade stood by Wynn’s side.

  “Go on,” she whispered, pushing blindly on the dog.

  Wayfarer saw Shade look to her, though not a word rose in her thoughts. There was nothing worthwhile to say for a majay-hì now caught between two women over a man who wanted only one of them. Shade turned away to follow Chuillyon.

  Everything now depended on Wynn’s finding the strength to ignite the crystal again and keep it lit. And that depended on Wayfarer doing something she had never done before.

  Wynn reached out her nearer hand, fumbling toward Wayfarer. Wayfarer grabbed that hand, and Wynn guided it to a grip on the staff just above her own.

  “Put the glasses on,” Wynn said weakly, turning her head but not her eyes. “And look away. Even so, you will know if the crystal lights up . . . by whatever you are going to do.”

  Wayfarer grew sick with panic as Wynn double-gripped the staff below her own hand. And as Wynn began to whisper, too many “ifs” swarmed Wayfarer.

  What if the staff would not light? What if Wynn could not keep it lit? What if she did but then faltered and Wayfarer could not keep it lit? And still worse . . .

  What if she could?

  Wayfarer put on Wynn’s glasses as Vreuvillä’s warning hammered in her thoughts.

  Nothing can be created or destroyed in such a way. Only changed . . . exchanged.

  Wayfarer gripped Wynn’s shoulder with her other hand as she looked away. And all she could do was what she had been taught. She looked—felt
—for the Elements in all things, the Fay that was . . . were in all things.

  From the heat—the Fire—in her own flesh. From the breath—the Air—she took in rapid pants. From the blood—the Water—that flowed through her. From bone and sinew—the Earth—of her own body.

  From the Spirit that she was.

  Answer my need . . . my wish . . . ay jâdh’airt.

  The night lit up, even as Wayfarer continued looking down.

  She flinched and stopped breathing but rapidly refocused so as not to lose what she had asked for. That light was so bright, she could see the cracks in the hardened earth—brighter than at any other time she had seen Wynn light the staff.

  Relief almost made her look to the crystal, but she stopped herself. Relief almost kept her from thinking.

  Only changed . . . exchanged.

  Somewhere in the world, the light of the sun was diminished, for that came to the staff so long as she wished it here.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Leesil followed Ghassan down the passage into the mountain by the light of the sage’s cold-lamp crystal. Ghassan gripped the crystal while carrying a single chest, so its illumination wobbled on the passage walls with every labored step. Leesil struggled to haul two chests strung on poles with Brot’an behind him. Chane and Ore-Locks bore the final two chests. Leesil began growing concerned as Ghassan continued glancing into the side tunnels.

  Those other passages were obviously dug out long ago. Though the domin paused a few times, he never appeared lost or in doubt. He walked like someone recalling the right route without even thinking. Ghassan had claimed he’d explored places like this in his youth, but it was highly unlikely he had explored this one.

  Leesil pulled up short, dropped his ends of the poles before Brot’an halted behind him, and grasped Ghassan’s sleeve.

  “What are you looking for?” he demanded.

  Ghassan turned, the chest still in his hands. “Pardon?”

  “You seem to be looking for something, but if you haven’t been here before . . .”

  A flicker of surprise on the domin’s face was followed by something else, but Leesil couldn’t tell what.

  “Of course I have not,” Ghassan answered sharply. “I am seeking, even guessing at, the best downward path to wherever the Enemy might have sought refuge.”

  Leesil had little option but to accept this explanation, though it still bothered him. Simply studying the mouth of a passage wouldn’t reveal where it led. Glancing back, he assessed the others.

  Chane had a crystal as well, though it was not glowing right now. Even as an undead, he looked almost as worn as the rest. Whatever Ore-Locks had done to pull down that last locatha had taken something out of him. And no matter what Brot’an said or didn’t say, he was wounded. Leesil’s side still ached, and the ache turned to outright pain when he crouched to lift the poles and chests again.

  “Get on with it,” he said.

  Ghassan did so as Leesil adjusted the poles’ front ends. Then the domin stalled again, but this time stood staring ahead.

  “What is it?” Leesil asked.

  “A cavern,” Ghassan whispered, seemingly more to himself than in answer. He moved on. Not far ahead, his crystal’s light exposed a broad widening of the path.

  Four pale white men stood in the way, each with a sword sheathed on his hip.

  Leesil knew a vampire when he saw one.

  Having been so burdened and tired, he’d forgotten to pull out the amulet that would’ve glowed to warn him before now. He dropped the poles in the same instant as Brot’an and heard the same for Chane and Ore-Locks. The impact of multiple chests echoed along the tunnel.

  Leesil gripped the handle of one winged blade and drew the weapon from its sheath.

  “Wait!” Ghassan hissed under his breath.

  The four blocking the way wore matching black clothing—simple pants and shirts. All of them had hair down to their shoulders not quite as black as their attire. None had drawn a weapon. The tallest one stepped forward. He looked first at Ghassan and then the chests. Puzzlement flooded his features.

  “Where is Beloved’s child?” he asked, almost as voicelessly as Chane.

  Leesil tensed.

  “Child?” Ghassan asked dryly.

  Leesil already knew whom that meant: Beloved’s child, Magiere.

  The Ancient Enemy had plagued his wife’s dreams, tried to lure her in, and now this. Chap had been right never to allow her into the mountain. The undead quartet seemed to have expected her. Worse, they didn’t look one bit surprised by anyone else who’d come.

  The tall one’s gaze dropped again to the chests. “We will take the anchors. You will go and bring the child.”

  As Leesil took two steps forward, Ghassan set down his chest and straightened.

  “Really?” Ghassan answered barely above a whisper.

  Doubt made Leesil glance toward the domin.

  Ghassan blinked slowly, maybe lazily. Did his lips move in a soundless whisper? He then blinked rapidly and appeared to relax.

  The tall vampire leader’s features went slack, and his eyelids drooped. Neither he nor the others moved at all.

  “Take their heads off in one strike,” Ghassan ordered. “Preferably at the same time, so as not to arouse the others as one drops.”

  Leesil hesitated and looked back to Brot’an.

  Brot’an only watched the four intently and did not move. Neither did Chane or Ore-Locks, though Chane wore an angry frown as if he did not care for how easily this had been done.

  Neither did Leesil. Though he knew Ghassan was a skilled sorcerer, somehow what had been done exceeded anything he had seen the domin do before. It was unsettling, and he turned his suspicion on the domin.

  Ghassan’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Since when have any of you been squeamish at the thought of—”

  He broke off, quickly glancing back to his targets.

  The one on the rear left shook his head slightly.

  The tall leader blinked. His face wrinkled in a silent snarl as he jerked his sword from its sheath.

  Leesil saw no choice and rushed in, catching the undead’s sword with his winged blade. The clang of steel pierced his ears—and head—as he shoved with all of his weight to drive back his opponent. He only managed one step, and then Chane was beside him.

  Chane rammed the shorter of his two swords through the leader’s rib cage and jerked it back out.

  Ore-Locks thundered past at another undead closing in a rush.

  Leesil knew any vampire would be stronger than he was, much harder to kill, and the longer this went on, the worse the odds would become.

  “Get another one!” he shouted at Chane.

  As Chane rushed on, Leesil gripped the back of his one drawn blade with his other hand. He thrust the blade’s broad point into the leader’s other side, levered as it sank in, and heard the muffled crack of ribs. Before his target overcame pain and shock, he shouldered the undead into a retreat, which freed his blade. He slashed the weapon toward his opponent’s throat.

  It tore through the side of the vampire’s neck.

  Black fluids splattered over Leesil’s arm and onto his face.

  • • •

  Chane went for the next nearest target in the passage’s wider section. Four undeads would think they had an advantage over the living. While those with Chane were worn or wounded or both, it was not this worry that set off the beast inside him. It shrieked in alarm, and his own sense of reason warned him about what was wrong.

  These guardians had been expecting them . . . and Magiere.

  As he closed, his new opponent snarled at him, exposing elongated teeth.

  The vampire would not have seen him clearly in the dark tunnel, even with Ghassan’s crystal glowing. And while he wore his “ring of nothing,” these four cou
ld not sense him for what he was.

  Chane let his hunger rise and answered in kind, exposing his own teeth.

  His opponent’s eyes widened in hesitation, and Chane rushed inside its guard, striking with a fist first. Its head whipped rightward with the crack of impact. He followed with his blade.

  Steel sank through shirt and flesh, grating along ribs, and shock rather than death stunned the vampire. Chane wrenched out the sword, blackened with its fluids, and struck, aiming for his opponent’s neck. His blade had barely broken through the vertebrae when the vampire’s head began to topple off.

  Chane spun before the head hit the tunnel’s floor. He looked quickly among his companions for who was in the worst position.

  Ghassan had his back to the tunnel’s left wall, and Leesil had already put down the first, tallest one. Another body could be seen beyond Brot’an, whose right hand and hooked knife were both coated in black fluids.

  The last one lay in black-spattered parts at Ore-Locks’s feet. Its upper half still squirmed, but this ended as Ore-Locks’s double-wide sword clanged down through its neck.

  For an instant, all of them stood looking from one body to the next. Only the sound of their labored breaths filled the silence. It had all been too easy, and this made Chane suspicious.

  “Get the orbs,” Leesil finally commanded, sheathing his winged blade and glancing warily at Ghassan.

  Chane also glanced at the domin, not knowing what to think.

  Leesil said nothing more as he lifted the front ends of the poles for two chests.

  Four vampires had expected their arrival, possibly that of the orbs, and of Magiere as well, as if addressing mere couriers or attendants. Did the Ancient Enemy know they would come?

  Still, they could only go onward. Chane hurried to join Ore-Locks as Brot’an grabbed the rear end of the poles behind Leesil. But Chane continued to study Ghassan as the domin lifted his chest and stepped into the lead. It was not long before they stopped again.

  “Valhachkasej’â!” Leesil hissed.

  Chane stared ahead, at a loss. Though they had stepped into a great cavern, they could go no farther. They stood before the lip of a broad and wide chasm. All of them set down their chests again, and Chane reached the edge just after Leesil.